


To: You, Tutor

by henghost



Category: ITZY (Band)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, F/F, Implied/Referenced Underage, Light Dom/sub, Porn With Plot, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27519073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henghost/pseuds/henghost
Summary: You are "studying abroad" in Seoul when at a fansign Ryujin slips you note, and your affair with her begins.
Relationships: Shin Ryujin/Reader
Kudos: 20





	To: You, Tutor

**Author's Note:**

> By far the most pornographic thing I've written, so I hope it doesn't make you too uncomfortable lol. I just thought this pairing with this rating should exist. . . .

**1.**

In the end you decided to come. A little out of the way, maybe: a rush-hour train through a rushing tunnel, a twenty-minute walk through air half opaque with smog, the whole time asking yourself, isn’t this a bit pathetic? Aren’t you a bit old for this? It’s in this tiny theater, mostly populated by young men, a couple girls nearly half your age. You sit in a shadowy corner. The price of the ticket is such that you’ll have to ration ramen the next week or so. But here they come now like little dolls to bow and perform their signature introduction as if it’s another song. An enormous cheer to answer, which against all odds you join. And in the very center there she is, one Shin Ryujin, wearing jeans and a loose teal top and lots of rouge, and maybe all the sweat and anxiety was worth it.

There’s a little Q&A, and then some party games, and at last the spectators form lines to receive signatures, and this, too, you join. Soon you’re up next and you’re trembling. You don’t know what to say. Even from back here you can see Ryujin, you can see her lips and her hair and her smile and her skin. It’s all too much. But now it’s your turn. You step up to the long table and it was stupid, wasn’t it, to not bring anything to give her. You can’t make eye-contact. She grabs your hand and it’s electric. She says, “What’s your name?” and you tell her your name.

“That’s a beautiful name,” she says. You blush hot and your armpits itch. She’s still got your hand in hers, and you’re thinking its wetness must be somehow vulgar, too human to touch. Now she presses something into your palm and puts a finger to her plump pinks lips: _shush._ And then it’s time to leave, and it’s out quick into the steaming cityscape with its asphalt fields fleeing you. It’s paper, the thing she gave you, and it crinkles sharp in your hand through the horns and engines. An envelope. You unfold it and on its front flap is written: “To: You.” You stare at it on the way to the station. You get on the train and stare at it more. It must be a mistake. She must have mistaken you for someone else. But of course it’s too late now. A man on the train with a cigarette (unlit) in his mouth pulls at the waistband of his sweatpants to show you a flash of red briefs, as if this is supposed to impress you.

Then in your tiny apartment you peel it open like if you’re too rough it’ll explode. A few things inside. A note:

> Hello,
> 
> Do not be alarmed. This was not a mistake. I have given you this envelope because you intrigued me, and I would like to meet you again. As I write this, I have never seen you before. I did not pick you in advance. I picked you because you were the most intriguing girl at the event. By intriguing, if I’m honest, I mean pretty. I am hoping that your attendance at such an event means that I intrigue you, too.
> 
> So if you would also like to meet again, I have enclosed alongside this note a ticket to an ITZY concert a week from the date of the event. If this proposal interests you, please wear to the concert a green skirt and a red short-sleeved shirt, so that I will recognize you. If you do not already own these items, I have enclosed also ₩100,000.00
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Shin Ryujin.

Yes, here are the banknote and the ticket. The note is handwritten, and this fact makes your heart pound. You picture her pale wrist gliding up and down the paper to form the curvy characters. There are no blots on the page from a hesitating pen. She wrote it confidently. She wrote it one go. And despite the instructions you are alarmed. Your skin is hot and your nerves scream like sirens. You leave the papers on your little desk and take a cold shower, then afterward clear the condensation from the mirror to glare at your face. Pretty? From her it almost feels like an insult.

Your bed is too exposed, you decide, and so you sleep underneath it, lulled to slumber by an hour of videos of her dancing, her voice, her laughter. You dream you live with her. You dream you enter the bathroom unaware she’s already inside, and you pull back the curtain to find her in a bath half full with her arms around her knees, pink from the heat. She isn’t embarrassed. She smirks and looks like she’s about to ask you something . . . at which point you wake up.

#

You have class in the morning. That girl is there again. This girl — you don’t know her name, you’ve never gotten a good look at her face, she never speaks. All you know is that you always sit in the very back of the lecture hall, and she always sits in the next row down, wears nothing but pajamas, and it’s difficult not to stare at her shining hair like black silk. A couple times you’ve entertained the idea of talking to her, learning her name, but anytime you come close you get this wave of nausea because you’re sure you’ll fail somehow, you’ll fall, or stumble over the words (your grasp of the language is not yet perfect), and her laughter will be too cruel to stand. . . .

You’ve only been in Seoul six months but already you feel like a different person. Back home you only had boyfriends.

You came here to “study abroad”. Except you don’t study much and since you’ve got family here Korea isn’t exotic enough to truly be “abroad”. Your grandmother lives a little outside the city and is the one paying for your tuition and room and board. You don’t speak to your grandmother as much as you should. Overall you do very little speaking.

In the evening you buy a cheap green skirt and a cheap red t-shirt, and with the money left over order pizza and eat it (all) in bed with your laptop playing more Ryujin-centric video. Then with the showerhead and memories of last night’s dream you make yourself come, and afterward sleep on the floor again.

The rest of the week passes this way: in a Ryujin haze.

#

An hour before you leave for the concert you vomit and brush your teeth. Then you change into the costume she paid for and put on makeup and take the train to the stadium. There is a 70% chance of rain. She’s given you a front row seat. It’s your first concert. People on your either side bump into you and scream, and sound from the speakers above comes over the body-hot air like something lethal. And here the five are now. 

It’s maybe ninety minutes of singing/dancing, and for some reason you’re ashamed to cheer but in the end you do it anyway. To round out the routine they play some charades — don’t they get _tired_ of it? — and finally they’re bowing goodbye. A PA announcement to tell everyone how to exit safely, and a man dressed all in black comes from some secret door to tell you: “Right this way, ma’am,” and to usher you backstage, where there are a hundred staff too busy to see you. The man dashes off, and you hear boots on linoleum coming closer, closer. And here she is, wet with exertion, grinning with bloodred lipstick. She’s only a couple inches taller than you but it feels like a foot. She comes up to you and says, “So you came.”

“That’s what you wanted, right?” you say. Your face burns and prickles.

“Yes. I had to see you again. Here, follow me.” She takes off down a fluorescent-lit hallway without waiting to see if you’ll follow. You go after her half-jogging to match her big-cat strides. “By the way,” she says, “are you older or younger than me?”

“A little younger, I think,” you tell her. “Maybe by a month or so.”

“Well, call me _unnie,_ if you like. Let’s find somewhere to talk.”

She flicks her eyes around searching until she spots a door marked: Storage, and pulls its handle and finds it (strangely, absurdly) unlocked. She lets you in first then slams the door behind her and pulls a switch to power the sole bare bulb, which bathes the closet in shadowy gold. It smells like bleach. There’s barely enough room for two people to stand. You don’t know what you expected. “Take a seat,” she says, and you sit with your back to the wall and she sits on the floor across from you.

“This is weird,” you say. “I mean, it’s happening so fast. I didn’t imagine— This is like a fantasy. This is like wish-fulfillment.” Over the cleaning chemicals you can smell her: tang from dancing under the lights so long. Her scarlet stage outfit clings tight and covers so little skin. You can’t think.

“You’re free to leave,” she says. “I don’t want you to think I’m coercing you or anything. It’s just I didn’t want to delay. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Now she gets on her hands and knees and takes a crawling step toward you. “You’re so beautiful.”

“What are you doing?” you say.

And to answer she forces her body between your closed legs and kisses your mouth, and at once blood rushes to your turgid cunt. She says, “I couldn’t help myself. Did you like that?” And you nod. Her scent’s like a stinging mist around your head. “I don’t have much time,” she says. “Maybe twenty minutes before someone notices I’m gone. Touch me.”

“What?”

“I said touch me. Are you deaf?”

You reach out trembling to put your hand to her hot cheek. “No,” she says, and guides your hand to her breast. “Here. Touch me here. Don’t be stupid. Are you a virgin?”

“I had a boyfriend in high school, but never with a girl. I’ve never kissed a girl before — before just now. Are you?”

“All us idols are virgins, didn’t you know? No, of course I’m not. Come sit between my legs. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you about my first time.”

You switch places: her back to the wall and your back to her front. The heat is overwhelming. She kisses the side of your neck and you shiver and whimper and she shushes you. Even through the clothes you can feel the muscles of her stomach tense powerfully. It’s all instinct by now.

“So,” she says. “I was a trainee. And I was so intent on getting better. Better than everyone else. So I got this tutor. This woman maybe twice my age. Every other night I would meet with her in the studio to practice. I won’t tell you her name. She was tall and had the body of a dancer and these eyes that could cut right through you. I had the biggest crush on her. When she corrected me she was terrifying, which I think is what I liked.”

Ryujin’s hands come under your shirt and her nails trace circles around your navel before sliding farther up, up, and it’s so, so hard to keep quiet. . . .

“So one night,” she says, “one night I was off my game. There was one move I could not get. And she was strict, and she was mad. And finally, after about the tenth failure, she came up close to me, panting with rage, and slapped me. I think she must’ve left a handmark. Then, like it was out of guilt, she kissed me, and I kissed her back.”

Ryujin pulls up the hem of your new green skirt and runs her hands up and down and up and down your inner thighs. 

“And afterward we were standing there and standing there and finally she said, ‘Ryujin, take off your shoes.’ And I did. ‘Ryujin, take off your pants.’ And I did. ‘Ryujin, take off your panties.’ And I did. I remember they were damp in my hands. She said, ‘Give them to me.’ And I did. And, still red from anger, she put them in my mouth. I was a dripping mess. She said, ‘Put your palms on the mirror.’ And I did. And she squeezed my naked thigh and put her index finger in my cunt, and then her middle finger, and she fucked me, and I watched her do it, moaning into my own ugly underwear, and after I came she wiped my wetness on my thin little shirt, and left without a word.”

Now her hand comes to your core, and she says, “You liked that, I can tell. Do stories get you wet, baby?”

You nod and sigh as silently as you can, and Ryujin’s fingers slip under the elastic of your own soaked underwear, and she slides them down your legs, and you pull up your knees to help her, and she brings them over your shoes and tosses them to the side. She says, “More than one reason I wanted you to wear a skirt.” Her fingers slide over your sticky swollen cuntlips, her palm slow and hot over your clit. A moan comes from your mouth unbidden, and she says, “Stay quiet.” 

Now one long fake-nailed finger pushes into you, and you try, really try, but the pleasure slithers snakelike up through your stomach, your throat, and out between your lips. She says, “Stay fucking quiet,” and grabs your black panties and shoves them roughly onto your tongue to muffle your screams, which come now in halting bursts, again and again, as her finger slips — oh so easily — in and out, rubbing against your ridges and that soft spot which when touched blinds you. . . .

With her other hand she paws your left breast, and with her mouth she sucks hard on your neck. Her thick warm thighs keep yours from spreading infinitely. Her pace quickens, and it’s too much, and you say, “Ryujin, slow down, slow down,” into the cloth, and of course she can’t hear you. “Are you going to come?” she says. “Already? I just met you and already you’re going to let your come slick all over my hand . . . ?” 

Soon the water in your gut boils over, and your soft walls squeeze at that lewd digit and won’t let go. She puts her free palm over your mouth and for a moment you can’t breathe, which only increases the intensity, and it feels as though if she weren’t there to hold you you’d burst from your skin. Then once the shuddering subsides she dries her hands with your skirt and pushes you off her. And here’s another convenient coincidence: someone’s left a sharpie on the nearby shelf, which she grabs and uncaps and with it writes a phone number on your forearm. 

She says, “I have to go. Wait maybe two minutes before you leave. Wait twenty-four hours to call me. And um, you’ve got marks on your neck. You’re so beautiful.” And then she’s gone. You’ve still got the cotton in your mouth. You pull it out slowly and throw it at the opposite wall, and when it lands the sight of it lying there dead brings you to tears. You pull your knees up to hug and sob into your femur for the hundred-twenty seconds she advised. Too much too quick, and now you’re all hollow. 

You dry your eyes with your wrists and leave the underwear in the closet (a bit on the nose, don’t you think, for the site of your first time with a woman?) and exit out the back with nothing between your legs but a steadily drying wetness. On the train you sit with your knees tight together and try to ignore the stares. You smell like her.

Once home you rip off all your clothes and write the number on the back of her envelope and sit in the shower and cry some more, and in the end you have to use your own fingers because the scene keeps flashing in white-hot bursts against your eyes. That night you dream of the girl from your morning class. You dream she is a thousand feet tall and nude, and her face brings you once again to tears. . . .

**2.**

You wait exactly twenty-six hours before dialing. She declines the call and leaves you petrified for the sixty seconds it takes for her to call you back. She whispers, “ _Yeoboseyo,_ ” and you tell her the same. She says, “I can’t talk for long. I’m just outside the dorm, and people get angry when I’m out this late. But I want to meet you again.”

“I would like that as well,” you say.

“Okay. I’ll get us a — a hotel room or something. I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. I’ll text you the details.”

“Do you do this often?”

“What?”

“Find fans to fuck in hotel rooms?”

“You’re the first one.”

“You’re saying I’m special.”

“Of course you’re special. Have you looked in a mirror recently?”

“It sounds almost condescending when you say that. You, the idol.”

“Sorry. It’s true, you know. Listen, I’m worried that I was too, er, too rough the other day. Or aggressive. Or overeager. Or something. And I wanted to apologize. I could’ve been a bit softer, I think. I only had myself in mind.”

You almost say that you should be the one to apologize, but instead you say: “It’s okay. I had fun.”

“Well, I’m glad, then. I’ll see you soon.”

And you don’t get the chance to answer before she hangs up. You wonder if when you next meet you should tell her you love her. Probably not, you decide. Probably that would scare her, although it’s true. To have slept with Ryujin you worry is like having eaten fairy-food — you worry anyone else will be repulsive in comparison. 

#

Next time you see morning class girl you see she’s watching on her phone an ITZY dance practice. On the little screen you catch a glimpse of Ryujin with long pink hair and wince. This girl is rapt. You wonder if she has an idle crush, an idol crush, as you once did. For a second you pity her. Then the pity is replaced by guilt: she deserves her more than you. You can’t focus on the lecture.

On your trek back your phone buzzes with the details for the rendezvous. Tonight. Her name in pixels sets you sweating. You spend two hours deciding what to wear, and opt eventually for something similar to what you wore the other night. You don’t eat dinner for fear it won’t stay down. You look up the address she gave you and it’s within walking distance and off you go. . . .

Neon bursts from the city’s every orifice to coat you like a liquid. Everyone seems to yell at you, and only when you turn to face them do they say someone else’s name. A taxi runs a red and nearly hits you. Finally you turn one last corner and spot the light-up yonic heart to mark the love hotel. And as you approach a hoodie-clad girl with black-tinted glasses grabs your arm and escorts you inside. Muffled shrieks come from behind every door you pass, occasional obscenities, too, which causes your resolve to falter some.

Here’s the room Ryujin paid for. Big: a double bed with a metal frame, pink carpet that goes on forever. She takes off her jacket and she’s got nothing on underneath. Her nipples stiffen from the sudden chill and pierce you the way little knives might. “Should I keep the sunglasses on?” she says. 

“I want to see your eyes,” you say, and she obliges you. They go right through you, too.

“I got you something,” she says. “A gift.” And she pulls from her purse a little black box and hands it to you. You look at her like, Can I open it? And she nods, and you do. In it sit three pairs of lacy pink panties and you snort.

“Isn’t it a little cliché?” you say.

“Well, I ruined that other pair, didn’t I?”

You step forward and hug her and kiss her. This newfound confidence, if you’re being honest, is an affectation. You’re thinking it’ll impress her. She breaks away from the embrace and says, “So should we go through the whole routine? Take a bath first?”

“Have you been to a place like this before?”

“A couple times with that — that tutor I mentioned. I’ll turn the water on.”

You follow her into the bathroom and pull off your own top and try to gauge her reaction, which is inscrutable, and now you wish you hadn’t stripped so soon because you see how soft your stomach is compared to hers, how uneven your breasts, how slender and boyish your hips, and you don’t pull off your skirt until the last possible moment. Once the bath’s half full she slips out of her sweatpants (and she is no less perfect without them) and slides into the steaming water and where it touches her skin she goes the color of strawberry, and you say, “I had a dream like this, I think.”

“You dream about me?”

“All the time,” you say, and join her, the same position as in that closet.

“So now that we’ve got time,” she says, and rubs your upper arms, “tell me about yourself.”

“I haven’t lived here long. I’m ‘studying abroad’.”

“You have a bit of an accent. It’s cute.”

She pours a pool of cool complimentary gel into her hand and lathers it into your chest and stomach, and if the lathering keeps up you worry you’ll melt. She kisses your shoulder, somehow unchastely. Her hair where it is wet at the tips sticks to your hot skin. 

“Look at your pussy _swell!_ ” she says, and it’s no exaggeration. 

“Can I ask you something?” you say. “Is it difficult to live with so many perfect girls when you’re, you know . . . when it would be bad if anyone found out?”

“One time when I was drunk, and she was asleep, I licked Yeji’s face. But that’s the worst it’s ever been, besides, you know, fanservice. I’m not worried I won’t be able to keep my lust in check.”

“Drunk!” you say, as her finger and thumb come to tug at your nipple, and your heart bumps hard against your ribs to meet them. 

“Sorry, I’m absolutely shattering my idol image, aren’t I?”

“Can I ask you something else? What happened with your tutor . . . ?”

“Well,” she says, and lets go of you, “well we came to a place like this a couple times. It was only ever, you know, hook-ups. We never went on a real date. One time I told her I loved her, and she left pretty quick after that, and I never saw her again. She was supposed to meet me one night for practice — I mean my parents were paying her — but she never showed up. I called and called her and never reached her. I have no idea what happened to her. Maybe she died. Oh I’m getting too hot.”

And she lifts herself crimson and dripping from the tub and grabs the turquoise towel to dry herself, then takes your hand like a prince to help you out as well. She drags you back to the main room and bites her lip and says, “Get on your knees.”

“There’s a bed. . . .”

She looks over at it and grabs a pillow and let’s it drop to the carpet. She gives you a severe expression, and who are you to disobey, and so you drop to the carpet also, glad for the cushion. She puts her palm to your chin to make you look at her. She runs her thumb along the ring of your lips then puts it on the tip of your tongue like her fingerprint is a word you’ve forgotten.

“You look so good on your knees,” she says, and takes a half-step forward. 

“I’ve never . . . done this before.”

“I think,” she says, and takes another half-step so that her tufty coarse black hair touches the tip of your nose, “I think I only need a little friction. No skill necessary.” And that final half-step, and you can see nothing, smell nothing, taste nothing but Ryujin. “Look at me,” she barks, and you do your best to follow her instructions, and she groans loud and puts her hand in your hair and pulls just a bit. You probe the furry wetness with your tongue, and a certain movement makes her scream, and you attempt to replicate it. A definite slickness drips and dribbles from your center. She bucks uncontrolled and soon enough you feel the kegel-strengthened convulsion, and she grunts your name, and her rutting lets up. She backs away a bit and bends to kiss your red and gleaming lips.

Now once more she’s pulling you ragdoll, this time to the bed proper, and she grabs your waist to toss you on your back with your legs akimbo and leans to put her head between your knees and licks at you without preamble, and this is another first. This is loudest, perhaps, you’ve ever been. The warmth is endless, and so is the wetness, hers and yours merging to form something greater than the sum of its parts. Each serpent flicker of her tongue sends you into arched-back spasms, and her nails draw red lines down your thighs. You come clinging to the dirty sheets, and lie panting, no energy to kiss her back as she swoops down now with moist hair swinging against your forehead to lick away what dried lubricant remains, and finally collapses beside you.

The bliss, though, only lasts so long, and eventually she gets up and dashes all awkward to the bathroom for a quick rinse, and to redon her disguise. “You really can’t stay?” you call. 

“No,” she says, dressed now. “You’ve got the room till ten tomorrow, if you want. But no I can’t stay. It was fun. Let’s do it again.” And she’s gone before you can say goodbye. You get up and pace the capacious room with all the fluids still stuck to you becoming crust. Here’s a minibar you overlooked. The charge’ll go to her, won’t it? And a single shot of vodka puts you down swiftly into a dreamless black.

#

You wake with your head in a washing machine. Fairly extreme dehydration. You put on her gift and the same clothes over them. You exit the building alongside the other blushing lovers and find a McDonald’s on the corner, at which you order lots and lots of salt and almost a gallon of water. You can’t stop smiling.

**3.**

Next couple days you go around filled with a feeling like God’s given you some secret boon that will disappear the moment you mention it to anyone. Not that you really have anyone to whom you might mention it. Not even her: you are too scared to call her. She might yell at you for arousing suspicion. Or worse, you might talk for hours and she might discover you are not so interesting after all. You can only wait for another illicit set of details. 

You occupy the intervening time with videos of her, terabytes worth, and her music a constant soundtrack. It’s bordering, you sometimes worry, on obsession. She’s there in waking and in sleep. She is there for your every meal, your every moment of panic, your every private orgasm. These two times she has made you come are like little stars in your world of gray solitude, neon billboards to light up the drab and smoking capital. 

And at last, almost a week later, here’s a message to drown your body in dopamine: “Same time, same place.” You spend the evening in a state of near-frenzy. You change outfits three times — this time you’ll surprise her, you decide, something almost demure, unisex. But underneath it all the bubblegum lace. And it’s out into the night whose air is uncharacteristically clear. The moon, even, is visible. A sole bright eye to keep you company on the quick jaunt. The streets are quiet. Everyone seems to be getting along. . . .

Upon arrival she doesn’t lurch from the alley like last time, which must mean she’s already inside. Then the tired night-clerk looks at you and goes, “Shin Ryujin?” so maybe she’s only late. (Everyone must use celebrity names as pseudonyms at these places.) He hands you the key and you find the familiar room, blank as you first found it. She’s not here. You wait five minutes, ten. You call. She doesn’t answer. You wait an hour, call twice more. Another hour, five calls. You drink yourself to sleep with miniature bottles of whiskey and other assorted liquors, sobbing lumpy sobs into the semen-stained sheets.

#

You skip your morning class to nurse your hangover. No missed calls. Likely she used some prepaid phone which she’s snapped by now like a drug dealer. You sneak some dog hair back to your crushing apartment and pray it costs her a fortune. You spend the afternoon in a hateful haze, and the small walls around you seem to grow to twice their size so fast do they spin. . . .

You wake early and finish some assignments. You buy caffeine in a pill from the convenience store and come to class all a-jitter. You watch your girl in pink pajamas pay no attention to the lecture and instead scrolls through an endless text. After, as she’s almost out the door, you tap her shoulder and say, “What were you reading?”

“Oh,” and she giggles high and squeaky, “it’s embarrassing. Just some, you know, wish fulfillment. Hey, I think I never learned your name.”

You tell her your name, and she tells you hers. You get coffee together. You’ve got similar taste in music. Two weeks later you’ve got her tongue at the apex of her legs, and she’s praising your skill.

You get a part-time job over the break and save save save until you can purchase front-row tickets to an open-air ITZY concert for you and your girlfriend both — it’s her birthday. She makes fun of your Christmas-colored getup, but you tell her it was a gift. And toward the middle of their set Ryujin stares into your eyes and you’re sure, just sure, she recognizes you, and she appears entirely unfazed. Once you’re back home, to thank you, your morning class girl peels away your rosy lingerie and with her wet mouth teaches you all new things. 


End file.
